


Call Me Doctor

by Fangirlingmanaged



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Barely there romance, Implied Relationships, M/M, Pre-Slash, Professor!John, Student!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlingmanaged/pseuds/Fangirlingmanaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet in a university campus. John has barely acquired a professorship, and he meets Sherlock in the university library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Doctor

John… has no idea what it is that he’s doing here. Well, no, he does because he is such a bloody wanker when it comes to his friends and he can never say no when he is asked a favor. Plus, he owes his position to Stamford anyway so he kind of cannot refuse to whatever he asks. After his early invalidation from the army (He’s barely thirty, for crying out loud, he should still be out there with his brothers) he was desperate enough to seek any kind of job he could find. He was starting to give up on ever finding a situation when he had encountered Mike sitting at a park during his lunch near the Uni campus. He’d been limping around with his bloody cane (psychosomatic limp, figured, it couldn’t even be a real injury) when he’d happened upon his old upperclassman.

They chatted for a few minutes, and John confessed his dilemma to his old friend. Mike took one look at him, and seemed to deliberate something in his head. What he came up with, however, wasn’t something that John had ever expected. He had been a field medic, after all, he never could have guessed that he could have the potential for a professorship at the local uni. Stamford, however, had told him that with his knowledge and his hands on experience he could most likely get a job. Perhaps not a full time professorship, but some work was better than none. John thought about this, and about all the small clinics he’d visited that week with no results, and decided that it was worth a shot. He agreed to meet Stamford the next day at the uni so he could speak with the dean of his department and the office.

One week later, and there was a message in his answering box about a part-time professorship readily available for him if he were so inclined to take it. He would be teaching two course forensic chemistry and a criminalistics biology course. He would need to be up-to-date with his knowledge for the oncoming semester, but the uni and John himself were quite optimistic that he would catch up. The current semester had barely started and he was sure he had time to be up to date by the time show time began. Plus, he thought with a pang in his chest, he had enough experience with injuries and blood and corpses to be of much use in these cases.

It is because of this turn of faith that he finds himself in the library at the uni for that whole semester. It’s like riding a bike, he thinks with a wry grin as he moves about the floor and picks up book after book in order to pick up their worth in accordance with his syllabi. He tried to become as acquainted as possible with each book and each perspective. Three weeks before the current term, he felt very confident about his ability. He was leafing through a book on chemical reactions depending on pH levels when he heard a snort up to his left.

He raised his eyes to see a tall, lanky frame leaning against the book case. He was leaning sideways with his legs crossed at the ankles while he kept his eyes on a very thick book on criminal history on his hands. It’s hard to gauge his age because his crazy (sex) hair falls in a fringe on his forehead, obscuring his eyes and whatever signs of age might be around them. The only thing John could really see is the cutting cheekbones, the alabaster skin, and the frankly mouth-watering inducing lanky frame. In the reasonable part of John, he knows that this is most likely a student of the university and he should not be imagining him in a little less clothing.

John, trying to compose himself, shakes his head and raises an eyebrow. Three-Continents Watson coming out on full force. After all, he’s technically not a professor here yet. “Problem?” he asks the man next to him. A distant part of his brain registers the growl under his tone.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asks instead of answering John’s question. John starts at that, gaping at the stranger, not only because he has a very deep and completely delectable but also because nobody has asked him that point blank. He blinks at the man, and he supposes his stupid lack of response prompts the other to raise his head. Verdigris, no that’s not right, hazel? No, that isn’t it either. John unconsciously leans a little closer to get a better look, and the man smirks.

“Uh,” John eloquently answers. He then violently shakes his head and clears his throat. “Sorry, how did—I mean did—have we met?” he settles in.

The smirk blows up into a grin. “You’ve yet to answer my question.”

“And you haven’t answered any of mine,” John says cheekily. He admits it, he still has a bit of his flirtatious uni charm, and he works it for all he’s worth.

“Your posture suggests some sort of military training. You have a tan line about your neck and wrists, but your arms are incredibly pale in comparison. You lean on your cane as you walk, but you’ve been standing here for the past,” he flicks up his arm to look at his watch in a move that John refuses to accept is cool and continues, “fifteen minutes without ever needing to lean against anything. You’re holding your book with your left hand, but you tend to turn your pages with your right hand and you’ve checked your phone twice with it. So, an injury. Your eyes have flickered every so often around the room and you’ve kept your back to something solid the whole time you’ve been standing here. So, an injury and a tan line and a tendency to feeling unsafe? Where would that have been required?” he flicks an eyebrow up. “Afghanistan or Iraq, obviously.”

John stares open mouthed for a very long time. He can feel a flush crawling up his neck and into his face, but he can’t decide if it’s anger or complete arousal. As the stranger looks about nervously, and shifts his stance slightly he resembles a chastised little boy. John should definitely not find that attractive. John is lying to himself and he totally thinks this stranger could read him his whole CV and he’d listen to every little fact. “That’s—“he sees the stranger shift nervously again, “Brilliant,” he finally concludes. Tri-colored eyes jump up to his face. “That was absolutely brilliant.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” the stranger answers with a small smile. John might be imagining things but it looks… flattered. He decides this man needs to be flattered more often, he looks good with it. Then again, he scans that lanky body up and down again, he probably looks good with any sort of expression on that gorgeous face.

“What do people usually say?” John answers with a chuckle.

“Piss off,” the stranger replies with a full blown smile. It takes a bit for John to get over the disbelief, but he finally throws back his head and laughs. He hears a small… giggle. He looks good like that too.

“Well, they’re idiots then.” John can see the stranger about to reply, but then a phone goes off. Immediately, the good natured aura around the other man shifts and there’s something cold about his face. John misses the warmth immediately, and he doesn’t even think about why he doesn’t freak out about whatever it is the other man makes him feel.

“It appears I must go, Doctor,” the man says as he looks up from his phone. John is already used to whatever superpower the young man has to glean every little detail about John’s life so he doesn’t even startle. The stranger closes the book and goes up to his whole frame. He starts walking away without another word. He’s reaching the end of the aisle when John’s brain reboots.

“Hey!” he calls out, and the stranger thankfully looks back. He raises that eyebrow again, and john blushes. “You didn’t even tell me your name.”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” he says with a wink. “And I’ll be seeing more of you, I believe, Doctor. Although, if I may make a suggestion, you don’t want to use that book for your lectures. CA Magnussen is an idiot.”

John laughs quietly to himself and he closes the book. He goes back to the section he picked it from and replaces it. He already had enough books and material to compose his syllabi anyway. As he walks out, a grin on his face, he doesn’t even notice that he left his cane leaning against one of the book shelves.

 

About a week before John is supposed to start at the university, he’s going through his syllabi and his class notes one more time. He admits that he’s nervous, but he’s also excited. It’s like going back out in the field again, ready to save lives and do as much as he can. He’s doing almost the same, he thinks, preparing the future men and women that will make sure the world’s a safer place. It’s not the same, obviously, but it’s close and that’s enough.

He decides to check his email to see if any of his future students has tried to contact him. He was warned by Mike that there might be little overachievers who will try to get points even before the term starts. He grimaces, thinking about the level of patience that will probably be needed for those kids, but it still doesn’t dampen his enthusiasm. He grimaces at two of the kids that have contacted him already, a Sally Donovan and one Phillip Anderson and their overenthusiastic chatter, before his eyes zero in on the last name on his unopened messages.

**Message from W. Sherlock S. Holmes:**

_I have just seen the course syllabus you have made available to us, Doctor Watson. I am pleased to see you took my suggestion to heart, and have left Magnussen out of it. I_ eagerly _await your lessons for this term._

_Sincerely, Sherlock Holmes._

_P.s. I found your walking stick leaning against the book case were we met. If you wish to have it back, you may pick it up from my flat at your earliest convenience. The address is 221b, Baker Street. Fair warning, as my brother insists on reminding me, do knock before you enter. Could be dangerous._


End file.
